


Bad news (like a suckerpunch)

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Blood/Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, The one where Wesley is actually a underground operative for Shield, and really - everyone needs to stop making his life harder than it should be, au: no character death, kink meme fill, mild cross over with other Marvel universe stuff: Avengers/AOS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4142127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you really think I would put a loaded gun on the table where you could reach it?"</p><p>The answer was yes, apparently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Marvel's "Daredevil", wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: Inspired by a prompt on the Daredevil kink meme which asked for: "Matt/Wesley: Good!Wesley, undercover: When S.H.I.E.L.D. came to Agent Wesley about an undercover job in Hell's City, he thinks it'll be quick and easy. The kind of in and out he's used to. But it's not, because Wilson Fisk is so much worse than anyone ever thought. Now he's stuck as Fisk's right hand and in far too deep to quit. Only, between Daredevil fucking with his plans and Karen Page sticking her nose in where it doesn't belong, Wesley is scrambling to protect innocents and bring Fisk down before Hell's Kitchen becomes a war zone...again. *Extra points for Wesley's meeting with Karen being about trying to scare her off for her own safety but she shoots him (non-fatally this time) anyway.
> 
> Warnings: Adult language, au – no character death, mild crossover with Avengers/AOS, spoilers for the entire first season, blood, injury, violence, angst, drama, maybe a hint of pre-slash in terms of Matt/Wesley and some mild sexual content as we go on.

" _Do you really think I would put a loaded gun on the table where you could reach it?"_

The answer was yes, apparently.

And while the searing burn in his chest certainly wasn't pleasant - about as invigorating as the last time, right thigh, left shoulder, during an op gone sideways in Prussia - it  _did_ put more than a few things into perspective.

Namely that he had seriously misjudged one Miss Karen Page. And secondly, that he might actually not be able to talk his way out of this one before he bled out.

 _Fascinating._  He always thought he'd die on the job. For the cause. He was prepared for it. Counted on it, if he was being honest with himself - which he always was. But being clipped by a fledgling secretary moonlighting as a wannabe crusader of truth and righteousness just wasn't what he'd pictured.

 _Hubris._  A voice whispered, sounding distressingly similar to Agent Romanoff.  _Willful self-confidence. A rookie mistake. Pride before the fall, remember? I taught you better than this, James. You threatened her. You threatened all of them. You thought she would fold. Like the others. But she was different, wasn't she? You wounded her, but then you threatened her brood. And what happens when you turn your back on a wounded animal, hmm? It fights back. You deserve this, James. You got sloppy. People like us? We don't have that luxury. Distraction? Carelessness? It gets you killed. You've been under too long, Agent. You should have asked for extraction – reached out – why didn't you-_

His head lolled, shaking it off as the echoes reseeded and a fresh trickle of his own red sluiced through his fingers. Watching her watch him as she trembled, finger on the trigger, a hair's breath from ending it as the barrel of the gun quivered with her.

The shot had missed his lung.

_Barely._

But in passing through, it nicked something else. An artery no doubt. Something people who weren't part of S.H.E.I.L.D might call beginners luck. He sucked in a shallow breath, then another, ignoring the strangled whimper as the sniffling tang of tears wafted from the other side of the table.

He cocked his head, gaze turned inward as he tried to pin it down. There was something wrong –  _immediate_  - something he really should be getting out his phone and calling someone about. Only right now he was staring into the face of a child, horrified by what she'd done, but with hate burning high in her eyes.

He didn't blame her.  _Much._

Sometimes when you go undercover, you go too far. You forget where the lines are. That's why they'd called him. That's why they'd needed him. A man who knew where the lines were, but could still stand to look at himself in the mirror in the morning if circumstances dictated that those lines be crossed. And they had.  _Repeatedly._ But S.H.I.E.L.D still hadn't pulled him. Even when the fallout from Mrs. Cardenas death had lured out the thus far unidentified 'Man in the Mask'. Just like he knew they wouldn't. He'd barely heard a word from his handler since he'd gone to ground in Fisk's operation and that was how he liked it.

_Hell's Kitchen needed more than tough love if it was going to pull itself out of the gutter._

_In the scheme of things, his presence here would barely cause a ripple._

_If he lived past today, that is._

"I believe you have erred quite seriously, Miss Page," he remarked softly, pointedly not looking as her finger tightened around the trigger reflexively. Choosing to remain as unthreatening as possible as he breathed through the pain. Watching the crimson-iron of blood surge, leaking between the gaps in his fingers as his phone started ringing again.

_Fisk._

_He didn't have to see it to know._

_He always answered his phone for Fisk._

_Always._

_Wilson would be worried._

_Which was unfortunate considering the man had the coping skills of a teaspoon._

"Yeah?" She returned, breathing like she was the one with the bullet in her as the gun steadied itself in fractions. Point blank range. One bullet less than a full clip.  _Overkill._  "How do you figure that?"

"The answer is right in front of you," he returned, magnanimous as his free hand swept out, as if to encompass the room at large and all the shadowed players it might have contained any other day. "Because while your aim is impeccable for someone who wishes to gather information, unfortunately for the both of us, you shot the wrong man."

Her snort was waspish and unlady-like as she adjusted her grip on the gun. He liked it immediately. _Spirited_ , as Fisk would say.

"Pretty sure I didn't," she shot back. "You're the guy running around kidnapping people.  _Threatening people_. You work for Fisk! I'm right, aren't I? How can anyone trust a word that comes out of your-"

"You think I am a bad man?" he cut in, smooth and neat, just the way he liked as her lips fish-tailed. Indignant. "And what, that you're the good? Am I right? The protagonist to my antagonist? Black and White? Yin and Yang?"

His lip curled, waiting until he had her undivided attention before sneering disdainfully. Meaning every second of it as he used the moment to teach as well as tell. To show her through her own example how monumentally foolish she was. How foolish _all_  of them were. Nelson. Murdock. Urich. Every single of one them. Their idea of justice was nothing more than an infectious disease set to harm everyone and everything around them.

Like a farmer trying to save a single plant when the entire field was withering.

"Right and wrong. Good and evil? I'll start taking you seriously when you start using something other than words regurgitated from romantic paperbacks and children's movies," he replied scathingly, forcing his fingers to tighten another fraction around the wound. Using the fission of pain to his advantage as he arched up, biting down on a groan he didn't need to fake for effect.

"They are points of view, Miss. Page. Directions in course that often get you to the same destination. Fairy tales.  _Fiction._  Nothing more. Instead, ask me a _real_  question," he posed, head buzzing as he forced his eyes to focus. Ignoring the judgement in her eyes in favor of trying to make her understand. She had to at least try. He could get her halfway there, and then the rest would be up to her.

"A real question?" she started, voice breaking. "I don't-"

"Ask me how much it costs? Ask me who you have to know? Who you can save versus who you can't? Ask me how can the scales be weighed in your favor? How you can win when the world things you're losing. The real fight is keeping the world  _balanced,_  Miss. Page. Something that you and your… _friends_  have been making very difficult for me of late."

Self-satisfaction blossomed across her expression for a quick half second. "So this is what you do? What you're doing,  _with Fisk?_  You call that keeping a balance?!" she charged, jerking the gun at him violently like it was an extension of her point.

He regretted the nod he gave almost immediately. Head throbbing. Wanting more than anything to reach into his jacket and press the mute on his phone as the ringing started up again.

"Dissonant harmony," he expanded, smirk looping. "Like the old saying of keeping your friends close, but your enemies closer, I have  _control_  Miss. Page. In keeping Fisk close, he is within my ability to crumble. The game I am playing is a dangerous one, but it has a beginning, a middle and an end. There is structure. And an end game. But you? You're a child trying to reach the finish line with half the board missing."

"You see, Fisk believes he found me," he continued, speaking between the rings of his phone as he gestured towards his inner pocket. "That he gave my...skills...the opportunity to flourish, when really, I gave him the chance to use  _his_. Fisk had a choice when all this started. The choice to be the greater good or the necessary evil."

"Necessary?" she repeated, incredulous. Voice stark as the building shifted. Offending his ears with the impotent whine of rusting steel and three decade old hinges.

"Yes, Miss. Page. Have you  _seen_  Hell's Kitchen lately? Of course you have," he hummed. Weaponizing each word with the bitter aftertaste that most people called reality. But he'd always viewed as opportunity – boldly unmoved by the plight of the everyday nine to fivers – but always ready to grasp if you set your mind to it.

"You out of all people know the dangers that lurk in this city's dark corners. And you've seen the apathy that sweeps along its wake. People need to be _shown_  the face of corruption to believe it. To truly enact change," he affirmed, losing his calm in favor of pushing out the words faster and faster. Feeling the numbness begin to spread as his fingers flexed against the hole in his chest.

"Fisk could have succeeded in doing that through pursuing good. Only, he didn't. He chose the opposite balance and now, through that...failure, he will show them evil's face and the same conclusion will be reached."

Her mouth opened, jaw flexing like she was about to throw his words back at him before he cut her off. Clean and without regret as her lips firmed in a hard line of naked, bloodless skin.

"I am the scalpel in a city full of blunt instruments, Miss. Page. The people around you? That your firm defends? That pass you on the street? They are dangerous, filthy animals and you know it. Often doing far more harm than they do good. My organization understands that, and we learned a long time ago to use that to our advantage."

She swallowed hard, delicate throat bobbing. Feeling his attention stutter as he amused himself with how easy it would be to reach over and snap it.

"Your organization," she echoed, seizing on the word like a drowning man to a life raft. Trying to regain a semblance of control over the conversation as she all but fell into the bait he'd set out. Marveling at how the truth - more or less – after all these years of secrets and hiding was tumbling forth so freely. "There are more of you?"

The corner of his lip quirked, answer enough as the gun shivered in her grip.

"Who? Who do you work for?" she managed, finger back on the trigger. Giving him the distinct impression that if she didn't like his answer he'd find himself very uncomfortable indeed.

"I am an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D, Miss Page. I believe you've heard of us?"


	2. Chapter 2

The breath she choked on was shattered. A living prism of color and half formed thoughts as he cocked his head idly. Staring off at some point on the wall above her left shoulder, allowing himself the ruptured surrealism of the moment as the world started to pale around the edges.

"You can't be," she whispered, an unstable mixture of shock, repulsion and awe. "S.H.I.E.L.D is-"

"Good?" he offered, wolfish but calm. Finding an odd measure of peace in her turmoil as he tasted the shades of each and every emotion that made it across her face.

"So, it's all just lies?" she hissed. "What they've told us? What everyone talks about? The media?  _This_  is what S.H.E.I.D is? What it  _really_  is? Are they-are they all like you?" Disbelief coming off her in waves as every bit of her trembled. Struggling to stomach what he was selling before her attention was caught again. Watching him take off his glasses and set them on the table in front of him, before shaking his head.

"No," he answered, the honesty of it leaving him raw as disquiet hushed in. Disliking the feeling of being so open - so exposed - even where he knew full disclosure was necessary. He fought the urge to shift, to cross his arms over his chest and resume that same careful composure he'd had at the beginning. Forcing himself not to give any of it away as the sweat pouring off him slicked his shirt to his skin.

"My skill set – what I do - is rare," he explained, shirt catching wetly, smearing blood and sweat deeper into the threads. "Almost as rare as the situations that call for them. I am a realist. A man who understands that behind every victory, every 'feel-good' story, there are a pair of dirty hands."

"So, yes,  _I am_  an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D, but neither am I a child who believes in fairy-tales and happy endings. There is a difference, Miss. Page. And I  _created_  the bell-curve."

He could see himself reflected in the whites of her eyes.

And what he saw caused him to rock back, holding back a wince – if only just.

_Perhaps Romanoff would be proud yet._

"If you aren't a good man, then what are you?" she whispered, chipped nails a mess of flaking polish against the stock. Pretty in a worn down aesthetic sort of way. "How can you claim to work for the same people that helped save most of New York? How can someone like  _you_  be a part of all that!?"

The last of it echoed. Embarrassingly loud in all those yards of empty space. Making her color, both aghast and uncaring as the flat of the stock clicked menacingly against the table. Afraid he wouldn't answer. But more afraid that he would. Not yet realizing she was walking into a trap of her own making. Baited with Sunday-school morality and niggling self-doubt that was all too common on those that still had an approximation of a soul.

"I am a horror story," he rasped, ready for it despite the rash of coughing that accompanied the words. "I'm what's _needed_ , Miss. Page. The necessary evil this world has created." Tongue flirting with the blood rising up his throat as she flinched at the liquid tell. Staining across his teeth as he bared them at her.

"Like the scream that comes before the credits. I am the defining work in the genre. The rare movie where you exit the theatre _empathizing_  with the villain," he continued, forcing out the rest as his lids sank low – half-mast and tired. "That is what I am, Miss. Page. I am the reason people like you can go home to their beds and sleep through the night. I am the reason people like you and your employers can breathe free air and laugh while you're pretending to work on a Friday afternoon. I am the reason-"

His thoughts pooled, slipping through the cracks in his mind's eye as her lip caught between her teeth. A single tear rolling down her cheek as long hair wisped across her face in a veil of burnished gold.

"I am the question the movie leaves you with."

He enjoyed the pain that came next. The way her face crumpled. By this point he figured he'd earned it. Distantly sympathetic as he left her to it, eyes fluttering closed. Letting her parse with the realization that she was not only outmatched, but on the wrong side of the table entirely.

Her face was red-stained. Making them a matching pair as she exhaled with a long, shuddering jerk. Something that pulled like discomfort at his rib-cage as he watched the fight drain out of her. She wasn't meant for this. The stress had taken its toll. Struggling to put the pieces of her life back together after the illusion of safety had been taken from her.

He understood the need to regain that control. But not like this. If he had been anyone else she would have been dead long before she'd been stupid enough to ask Daniel Fisher out for that drink.

"And that's the reason why you aren't going to pull that trigger."

* * *

Minutes passed. Spanning out into an uncomfortable silence as she watched him sink further into his chair. Giving his thoughts their head as the ceiling spun in loose, non-concentric circles above them.

If this didn't work he would be the architect of his own demise. He understood that.  _Owned it._  In fact, he took complete responsibility. He'd spread himself too thin trying to keep those that didn't deserve an early death out of the line of fire. And he'd failed more times than he'd won. When was the last time he'd slept? Too long. He couldn't remember.

His apartment was cold and streamlined. Full of everything he liked, only he didn't spend any time there. Instead, when his body needed to sleep he rented out the third floor of any given four-star motel. Feeling safe in the silence as he lost himself in the comforters and sheets and wondered what it would be like to live a normal, and exceedingly boring life where he didn't weigh thousands of lives versus what S.H.I.E.L.D might consider the greater good, long before most people had finished their breakfast.

He thought about the people who might have slept in the same bed only hours before. Wondering about their stories, their small, singular enclosed little lives. Staring up at the gilded ceiling, mildly irritated with himself when he found his mind dwelling on the seamlessness in which Vanessa had wound her way into Fisk's life.  _Their lives._  Fitting together effortlessly – elegantly. As if they'd been made for one another. Merely going through life until chance and circumstance brought them together.

Unable to squash the tiresome little weed that was his desire for the same.

It was an unfamiliar craving that had only gotten worse as time had gone on. The want not merely for sex.  _But for intimacy_. For that boring part of normal life that included going to bed and waking up to the same person. That meant coming to love them more for their flaws then for their strengths. And unsurprisingly, he hated the very thought of it with a passion he found almost alarming.

He'd reached out to Nelson and Murdock in the beginning to keep them safe. He knew it appeared the opposite but it had been the only way. Kidnapping Karen Page had been an evolution of the same desire. She was getting too close. She was a child running down the stairs with a pair of adult scissors. Too trusting of a system that had never once worked in her favor to realize the mess she was creating. To know how close she and her friends had come to dying over the past few months. How many Hail Mary's he'd stolen for them again and again as good luck and better connections ran desperately short of both goodwill and patience.

He'd brought her here to make her understand, to show her how easy it would be to-

He wasn't aware he'd been thinking out loud until he realized that Miss. Page was looking down at him in horror. Speckling his face with dew-drop tears as an early spring made tracks across her face.

It's said that spring is the season of change. Renewal.  _Regrowth_. Exhuming what the long winter had rotten through. He wondered if she could see it. See what this city was going to become. Or were her thoughts still stuck in winter? Blind to the good that was spreading like tendrils – slow to grow by present nonetheless – all around her?

_When had she moved?_

_He hadn't seen her get up, had he?_

_He couldn't remember._

"There is a number on my phone. It is the last contact on the list, under "Ital-Italian Take-out," he started, grimacing as he fumbled wetly, slick hands fighting for purchase before he found the pocket and pulled out the phone in increments. Slow and pointed so that she could see. Thinking of all the ways he could have killed her already when the barrel of the gun dropped and she leaned forward, distracted.

"You should call it."

Her blue eyes flicker-flicked from him to the bloody phone as he pushed it towards her. "This could be a trick," she posed, suspicious but torn in a way that only confirmed what he already knew. That the seed had been planted and now all that had to be done was wait and see what would grow.

The laugh hurt as it rolled out. Jarring and laced with things he'd rather not dwell on as a familiar haze of darkness threatened to cut in from the corners. But he didn't regret it. The expression on her face was too sweet for that. Too pure. An ironic riot of porcelain steel and rusting carbon as his posture lost the last of its professional rigidity and began folding in on itself. Slumping down in his seat as his chin dipped low, flirting with the uneven rise of his chest. Lip quirking upwards in the first genuine smile he could remember making in years.

"Don't blame me for the lies the world has told you, Miss Page."

"Now call that number and let me save your life."

* * *

The next thing he was aware of was blinking himself awake, spread-eagled across the filthy concrete as the ceiling tiles swam in and out of focus. His lashes felt long, sticking together in a mess of mucus and salt-tracks. Watching – affably removed - as Miss. Page pressed down on his chest. Thin little hands stained red to the elbows with finger-print smears.

For a long moment it almost didn't make sense. That is until he realized that the fingers of his left hand were fisted vicious-tight in the cuff of her jacket. Giving him leverage as he hissed through his teeth. Fighting the softness that threatened to pull him under as her long hair rippled above him like a banner.

Her chapped lips were making sounds. Meaningless and unimportant into the phone. Nearly overwhelming that of distant helicopters blurring into the dark of a midnight-still that seemed to have caught both of them by surprise.

He choked on a laugh, gargling a sudden sheath of red as it trickled down the point of his chin.  _Waxing poetic?_  He must be worse off that he'd thought. Self-indulgence had never been of any particular use to him. He had his vices, like anyone. Good food. Better wine. The satin-touch of a luxuriously high thread-count and a tailored suit that fit comfortably over him like a second skin. But unlike most, he was aware of them. And thus, did not allow them to rule him.

He watched the phone drop, the motion slow and blurred when she caught him looking. Guilt and uncertainty were swirling in the forefront – rising with the strength of an unwilling epiphany. But for some reason, just as soon as he focused on them, those same eyes went dead.  _Blind._ Superimposed with dark circular glasses and two day old stubble that warped along the edges of her face. Becoming something – no -  _someone else_  entirely.

_Murdock?_

_Intriguing_.

Unsurprisingly that was the last thought he had for a long, long time.


	3. Chapter 3

He woke to a changed landscape.

To a new scar.

Rigidly controlled bedrest.

And nurses that meant business.

 

He woke to Fisk in jail.

To an operation in tatters.

Leland six feet under - most of their financials gone with him.

And rigidly controlled bed-rest.

 

He woke to Ulrich having been found dead in his home.

To Vanessa safely absconded somewhere in Southern France.

Skin knitting with the help of three staples on both his front and his back

And Page, Murdock and Nelson alive and well.

 

_Typical._

* * *

He slept for most of the first week. Enjoying the weightless nothing that entered his system periodically. Taking away the pain still spidering out from his chest in throbbing aches of slow-healing muscle as the nurses came and went with their needles and quiet tuts.

And while the walls of his very private, very expensive hospital room didn't immediately talk, he learned the layout of his new reality remarkably quickly. Charming the nurses and putting up with the mockery of a routine police visit. Teasing their strings long before the puppets knew they were dancing to his tune. Quietly adjusting the tallies and legers in his head as both of them – a bored desk Sargent looking to make a mark and a tired looking Lieutenant and mother of five – were added to the payroll.

He arranged for a bouquet of flowers – Jade Vine and Parrot's Beak – to be sent to Madam Gao's last known address, purely for the courtesy. Determined to keep a semblance of communication open between them. His sources turned up nothing in regards to her location other than back alley gossip about a run in with the Man in the Mask and a near miss on both sides. He heard nothing in return, but expected as much. Content with knowing the woman would have gotten the message at the very least.

In the end, his near miss didn't even make the papers. After all, why would it? He was just another innocent victim of an unsympathetic city. A mugging gone wrong wasn't worthy of note in the scheme of things. Even if said victim had been ushered into seclusion and offered what was perhaps the best medical treatment anyone in this side of the world could ask for. No questions asked. The nurses not affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D merely gossiped about money talking - joking about being named in his will or expecting to be swept off their feet in a Lifetime Channel style romance any moment. Ribbing each other good naturedly as they changed his dressings and gave him the running highlights from the newspapers he'd already skimmed that morning.

In truth, his appearance barely caused a ripple.

* * *

He found the bullet S.H.I.E.L.D dug out of him in the middle of a box of expensive Swedish chocolates. A hand selected mix of all his favourites, sent to his hospital room not long after he stabilized. He kept it in the breast pocket of his hospital gown as a reminder.  _Ever the dutiful chastised child._

The only other thing to arrive was an obnoxious bundle of pink roses half a week after he woke up. His nurses thought it was hilarious, saddling him with one of the pushy older ladies when she brought them in. Burbling about secret admirers and special some ones. Clearly transported by the gesture until he traded his wrinkled nose for an embarrassed smile and offered her one with a clumsy flourish - his weakened side hinging the movement.

He breathed a sigh of relief when she finally left, blushing and tittering. Waving the floral monstrosity out the door like a banner, no doubt eager to show it off to the rest of the floor.

The offending bouquet was bright and so grossly inappropriate he was certain they were delivered to the wrong room until he read the tag.

" _There wasn't a card for: "You are a giant dickhead, but I am weirdly annoyed and grateful you aren't dead. So, here you go. - K. Page."_

He ended up laughing so hard he pulled a staple and half the floor of nurses came running.

It seemed as though Miss. Page was putting him through a lot of firsts lately.

* * *

He considered asking her for coffee, if only to see what color her face would turn. But didn't. Instead he sent a modest bundle of white and peach roses to the office on her birthday and enjoyed the three days of sarcasm and pouting jealousy of one Franklin Nelson - who was clearly infatuated - via the wiretap he placed when the firm first appeared on their radar.

The amusement it garnered him seemed a fair trade.

* * *

There was only so much he could do from a hospital bed, but he did what he could.

It gave him time to demolish and rebuild the system he'd already constructed months ago. Contingency plans he'd adjusted and rearranged in his mind between phone calls and the rare, quiet evening when Fisk had had no need of him. Allowing the empire they'd built together to stand on its own and stretch it's legs. Elegant, if not imperfect.

Whatever downtime he had when the hours slipped past – blinking through the blur of exhaustion and drugs - he spent planning his next move.  _Fisk's next move._ Because despite all evidence to the contrary, nothing had actually changed. His cover had been protected. He was still in the game. S.H.I.E.L.D – or the agency formerly known as S.H.I.E.L.D, would have never left him here otherwise.

He slept more than he was used to, but he was able to justify it by repeating the same thing his nurses did when they caught him in the dark, squinting at his laptop long after hours. Telling himself that his body needed to heal and sleep was the best thing for it. It felt wasteful, like an indulgence. Like a bad habit he could easily allow himself to fall head long into. But for the sake of not making waves, he managed to find a happy medium. Placating the nurses and his physical therapists while still exhuming that was left of Fisk's operation from the dust of public opinion.

He healed slower than the last time and pretended not to notice.

* * *

Fisk appeared sallow-pale. Washed out and haunted in his prison-whites when he came to visit almost two months later – less than half a week after his own discharge from the hospital. He'd spoken to the man half a dozen times on the phone in the meantime – making vague plans and inquiring after business - but none of that compared to  _finally_  seeing him again. A hulking mess of contradictory behavior versus appearance behind three inches of standard prison plexi-glass.

The picture the difference painted was stark. Fisk was a mere shadow of his former austere, quiet violence. But the man smiled warmly all the same. Genuinely pleased to see him as he waited obediently for the trio of prison guards to take off his cuffs. Thanking them by name as he picked up the telephone. Ushering themselves out with a final, affirming nod and a reminder that they had less than thirty minutes.

His own receiver was already warm against his ear. Promptly over-eager and firmly in character as Fisk shifted in his seat, pulling a stressing creak from the ugly orange plastic as their eyes settled and a semblance of normalcy entered his world again.

"It's good to see you, Wesley," Fisk rasped, shoulders shrugging, as if to shake the ghost of a suit straight. The man's eyes were cold, hardened into a shade that was closest to steel-grey as the clock on the wall  _tick-ticked_. Fingers twitching, like the tips were still yearning to run over the pads of his usual cuff-links – a nervous tick, perhaps.

"And you, sir," he returned, adjusting his glasses against the glare of the buzzing fluorescents. Smooth and stream-lined, just like old times as he ran a hand down the crisp line of his tailored slacks.

That one, simple sentence was enough to send the good moments rippling. Re-living it a second time around as he allowed his brain to operate on auto-pilot. Feeling the muscles shape and flex around the words as moments where he'd almost forgotten it was a mission – not a reality – not  _his_  reality washed over him like water lapping at a distant shore. Moments where the line between asset and would-be friend had blurred. Twisting and turning until – before the Man in the Mask, before Karen Page, Matt Murdock, Ulrich and Nelson - he wasn't sure if there was even a right side to be on anymore.

He pulled himself back like whip-lash. Thoughts dangerous.

"May I say it's good to hear your voice in person again, sir?"

The worst part was it wasn't a lie.

Not even a little bit.

* * *

He quietly saw to the transfer of Fisk to more respectable accommodations within the prison system. Seeding his cell block with sympathetic second chancers whose general answer to the command: _jump_  was  _how high?_  After their bank accounts had been appropriately seeded for their services.

He took it upon himself to hire two companions for Fisk's mother and moved her once again. This time to a sea-side villa whose caretakers spoke excellent English and doted upon her accordingly. He began calling her once a week just to listen to her chatter. It was surprisingly therapeutic. She called him a good boy and he reminded himself why he was supposed to hate people.

It didn't work, but then again, he had a mother, a grandmother, even a great grandmother once. And apparently there were some universal constructs that remained constant regardless of time and circumstance. And apparently, sweet-natured old ladies with maternal instincts the size of an aircraft carrier were one of them.

He started to rebuild Fisk's empire from the ground up. Cutting all the fat and starting over. Taking a new approach as the city began to move on. Latching itself to another fresh scandal involving banks, embezzlement and a very miffed trophy mistress with nothing to lose.

Surprisingly little changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> * Parrots Beak (Lotus berthelotii): Classified as exceedingly rare since 1884, the Parrot's Beak flower is believed to be extinct in the wild, though some individuals believe it may still be alive. The plant is native to the Canary Islands and is believed to have been originally pollinated by sunbirds which have long gone extinct.
> 
> * The Jade Vine (Strongylodon macrobotrys): known for its spectacular blue-green, claw-shaped flowers, produces a hanging inflorescence of color seldom seen in any other flower. The flower is pollinated by bats which will hang upside down to drink the nectar. These rare flowers are now hardly seen in the wild and are believed to be threatened by the deforestation of their natural habitat in the Philippines.
> 
> * White roses: meaning, amongst other things, "remembrance." So, in sending white roses to Karen, Wesley is sending a dual message of: 'I remember what you did for me and I am acknowledging it,' but also 'remember why you did it and keep your mouth shut for both our sakes'.
> 
> * Peach roses: meaning, amongst other things, "gratitude, thankfulness, and sincerity." So, in sending peach colored roses to Karen, Wesley is also thanking her for her trust and choice to save his life.


	4. Chapter 4

He managed to avoid Nelson and Murdock for almost three months before circumstances hastened the inevitable and he found himself braving the spider-infested stairways and run through carpets in order to pay the ramshackle firm a visit. He didn't call ahead. Instead, he merely ordered a car and pulled up at a prompt 10:45am. Late enough that Nelson and Murdock were already committed to a full days work and early enough that they couldn't cite lunch as an excuse not to meet with him.

It was a risk. He knew that. Even without Miss. Page's involvement, the lasting media attention that had been focused on him along with Fisk's arrest had been intense.

He'd taken on the lions share himself.  _Damage control_. Having gone on record that he had no idea his former employer had been involved in any of the charges that had been brought against him, and instead, had an undying faith in the message behind Fisk's life work and his desire to see it made a reality. Publically cutting ties from all of Fisk's known affiliations in order to re-shape the company to focus on charity work and the renewal of Hell's Kitchens' infrastructure and social support networks.

And that was what the new company was about.

At least, on the surface.

His approval ratings were at 75% and counting and the company was already turning profits in all sectors. He had personally seen to it that 35% of the most at risk homeless and domestic violence shelters were appropriately funded and saved from the municipal chopping block. But he was more than aware of the scrutiny he was under. Now more than ever the focus had to be on details – the choreography of the dance rather than the background set. He was more than aware of what was hanging in the balance.

The off-centre throb in his chest was reminder enough of that.

It was a calculated risk, but a risk none the less. There were variables to be sure. Allowances and contingences that had to be made to take into account the complexities of human behavior. Emotional outbursts, illogical flares that edged towards suicidal dramatics and overarching stupidity that most people tended to display if the right buttons were pushed at the wrong time.

Still, given the fact that he preferred to court his affairs pragmatically, if not directly, the fact that Nelson and Murdock were still of some use to him was merely an unexpected bonus as far as he was concerned.

* * *

It would be a lie to say he didn't enjoy the emotions that spilled over as he walked confidently into the room. Miss. Page dropped a stack of files with a loud thud. Nelson jerked, upsetting his coffee so that it splattered down his cheap bargain-bin trousers -cussing out a blue streak that made even his eyebrow raise. But Murdock?  _He was already looking._  Sightless eyes fixed on his face. Fingers clenched like the cane in his hand had the ability to be strangled.

He basked internally, smirking. Glad to see he'd made such a lasting impression.

"Good morning gentlemen, Miss Page," he greeted, smoothing his tie but making no move to extend his hand to shake. Knowing the gesture wouldn't be returned as he took another handful of steps into the room and closed the door behind him.

"What…what are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be in the  _hospital_?" Karen started, accusing like there was some remote possibility that she'd shot a blank and he didn't have a knot of scar tissue across the front of his chest that was already aching for two days without sleep and a lack of diligence when it came to his exercises.

"Hospital?" Murdock questioned, head cocking. As if by sense alone the man might be able to locate the injury and make his own assumptions.

"Ah yes. Um. It was in the papers. You didn't know?" Karen backpedaled, eyes flickering and growingly pleading as Nelson rolled his eyes, clearly about to say something about how naturally the man hadn't. Being as though, as far as he was aware, the local papers were still not willing to translate their headlines into braille.

But it was Murdock's expression he was interested in.

His face was intriguingly focused.

Like the man was listening to something only he could hear.

Something half formed – an assumption without basis – swirled in the back of his mind.

_It was almost like-_

"It all sounds a lot more exciting than it actually was, I assure you," he returned smoothly, filing away the thought for future consideration as he inhaled, indulgent. Catching the hint of old coffee, fading perfume and some sort of pesticide paramount in the air as a small fan ruffled the papers on Miss. Page's desk.

"I admit to being a bit careless, I am afraid. I dismissed my protection detail for the evening. As you might be aware – as I told the media in my statement during my hospital stay – I was beginning to have serious doubts about the manner in which my employer was going about achieving his goals for the city," he stated, smile never wavering an inch as an irritated glint entered Miss. Page's glance.

"I wanted some space to consider my options. You must understand my situation. To betray not only my employer, but my friend, whom I deeply respected, and watch his dreams for the city be consumed by the dangerous path he was taking. Or keep the status quo and hope the issue could be resolved in another, less public manner. Needless to say, I wasn't paying attention. After that, the story is rather mundane really. After all, what is one more mugging in a city already suffocating in crime?" he murmured, seeing a grudging sort of acceptance enter Nelson's eyes as the larger man sized him up, shaking his head.

"A mugging, huh? How ironic," Nelson drawled, one hand finding its way to his pocket – a nervous gesture meant to show nonchalance but only highlighting the target's unease. "Streets are just not safe these days if a scumbag like that can't be caught."

The accusation and threat was thinly veiled. But highly amusing. Reminding him of a lion cub attempting to roar but only ending up mewling – screechy and young - as its elders chuff with indulgent laughter.

"Is there a point to your visit, Mr. Wesley?" Murdock broke in. The use of his name almost took him off guard as it fell from the man's tongue with almost taciturn ease. Making him wonder if he could coax it out another way - whimpering and wrecked.  _Would Matt sing for him? Would his lips caress his name like they did at Sunday Service? Teasing the plush of them against his rosary? Would-_

He shifted, a slight tell to the left as his cock firmed up against the zipper of his trousers. It was subtle and mostly hidden. But the man's nostril's flared all the same.

_Curious._

The corner of his lip quirked when Murdock's Adam's apple bobbed.  _Nervous?_  No. It wasn't as simple as that. It was more complex.  _Complicated_. Like everything about Murdock, it would be true to the man, himself. Unique.  _Challenging_. He did like a challenge.

"Yes, of course," he purred, flashing his teeth in a smile as Miss. Page stared at him, worry clear. "As amusing as this conversation is, I didn't stop by just to catch up. I am here on business."

"Business?" Nelson repeated, long hair curtaining over his face as he glanced over at him like whip-lash. Like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. "After everything that happened on the news? What leaked about Fisk and your...uh,  _business_? No offence, but what makes you think we want anything to do with you?"

The recycled air was stuffy and stale, enough to make the tips of his collar uncomfortably damp as a light sweat sheened across his throat. Business must really be bad if they couldn't afford to run even the dilapidated little window unit opposite Miss. Page's desk.  _Perfect._

"Well, first, because you by proxy  _are_  affiliated to my employers 'business' as you put it," he pointed out, making a show of checking his watch as the second hand  _tick-tick-ticked_  – it's rhythm comforting and symbiotic – as a muscle in Murdock's jaw twitched.

"Secondly, my employer is no longer in direct control of his company nor the direction it is taking. I am sure you've been keeping abreast of the changes I've been making?" he continued, polished and more amused by the second as he fixed Karen with his full attention and enjoyed the colors that rose up in response.

"I am ensuring my employer's initial wishes for this city and its betterment continue. This time for the benefit the city itself,  _solely_. I am attempting to give Wilson Fisk and his holdings a fresh start. Under my guidance and control, of course."

"Of course," Murdock parroted, not even hiding his sarcasm as his partner blew out a long breath between his teeth.

"Great, so what? We trade the shark for the crocodile, is that it?" Nelson muttered, running a hand through his hair as he looked over at his partner with a torn expression the man certainly couldn't see. "Awesome."

"There were no legally binding documents drafted during that exchange," Murdock pointed out, taking a firm step forward. A calculated play based in a more subtle form of behavior. Aggression and warning through a seemingly passive action. It might have even worked, had he been anyone else. "Nothing to prove that we owe you loyalty nor due process in any future endeavors."

"No, but it  _would_  be rather rude," he returned, smiling again. This time nearly half way genuine. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. Almost smiling. He wrinkled his nose, unsure of if it was distaste he was feeling or conflict regarding the same.

"Naturally," he started, lengthening the natural pause until Nelson gained another frown line. "If you were to refund the cheque my employer wrote for your business in full, I will reluctantly take my business elsewhere. I was greatly impressed with your dedication and integrity in our past dealings. However, perhaps it is for the better, hmm? I am sure there are other half-starved lawyers in this city that might be more receptive to my proposal," he finished, smirking. Knowing full well that the residuals of the cheque were the only thing keeping the lights on.

Murdock's knuckles cracked.

"Though, word to the wise, you might want to consider turning your air conditioner on once and a while," he hummed, tugging on his collar for emphasis as the oppressive, smoggy heat seemed to condense like tension around them. "Your next prospective client might not be as…understanding of your financial situation as I am."

He could practically  _feel_ the litany of unspoken curses that hazed through the air around his head. The moment felt more like a true victory than anything in his life had for a startlingly long time. It was honesty, of a jaded sort.

"However," he started, timing the moment perfectly. Cutting Murdock off cleanly as he shrugged his shoulders and indicated to the briefcase in his hand. "If you are refusing purely on moral grounds, I can assure you that the case…or should I say,  _cases_  - because there are a fair few - are right up your alley?"

Miss. Page blinked.

Nelson's mouth dropped open.

But Murdock, for his part, simply stood – unmoving.

"My employer's previous methods were misguided. You and I know that is not up for debate. However, I can assure you I am not vulnerable to the same pit falls. You may disagree with my past associations, but not the progress of today," he shared, unclipping his briefcase and fishing out a UBS drive, silently handing it to Miss. Page.

"I came prepared to give you full transparency - which is what you will find on that drive. Consider it a measure of trust, made in good faith or whatever you need to come to a decision about our business relationship," he explained, gauging the mood of the room as Miss. Page turned the drive over and over in her narrow little hand. He blinked and in the backwash of neurons and cones, he saw them stained red again, smeared up to the elbows in his own red. Jarring and-

"There is no such thing as erasing the past," he pressed on, forcing himself to look away, forcing himself to switch his attention from Nelson to Murdock in turn. Unsettled as the ghost of the same taste threatened to rise in his throat. Distantly he recognized the sensation for what it was. Post trauma. Fledging PTSD. The beginnings of a possible panic attack.  _Embarrassing._

"But one  _can_  strive to overcome it. And to better one's self in the process," he shared, pushing through it "And _that_  is why I am here."

"The people I want you to represent need your help quite badly. They cannot afford adequate council so I am providing it. I can assure you the cheque will, once again, be more than generous. And, who knows, perhaps the amount will even be enough for you to afford turning on the air conditioner once and a while. That is,  _after_  you've paid off a half year of rent with one cheque."

Miss. Page nearly dropped the flash drive.

The silence was pregnant.

Cut-throat with possibility.

All that was left to do was sweeten the deal. Provide that extra reel of assurance as he watched Murdock's tongue slick across his lower lip. Lost in thought and thinking to the beat he was grinding with the tip of his cane - boring through the grimy carpet every other breath.

"You wanted a chance to make this city a better place did you not, gentlemen? On this, I think we are of one mind. Because despite what you might think, that's all I want. I want to run a business and for Hell's Kitchen to profit from it. Working together gets us what we  _both_  want. Now, let's get started, shall we?"

* * *

In the end, it was even true.

They both ended up getting what they wanted.

Somehow Murdock even met his gaze when he looked up from where Nelson and Miss. Page were huddled over the documents. Watching those strong, tapered fingers skim across the beaded dots of the braille copy he'd brought especially for that purpose. Filing away the reaction they'd gotten from the man when he'd handled the thick sheath over along with a copy of the case files and proposals he'd made for the others.

' _Nothing if not thorough, aren't you Wesley?'_ A dark voice whispered. Like Fisk, but only deeper. Baser. Like it'd come from within, but rang through his ears wearing an imposter's skin.  _Fisk never whispered._  That kind of subtly was lost on him. Even when he spook softly, like he did to Vanessa, it was still a muted cry of rage and distaste. Lessened only for the love and affection he bore her, and that she displayed in turn.

His mother used to whisper.

She used to tell him to run.

To use his head.

To play it smart.

To set an example.

To twist the hand that slaps you and snap it clean off the moment their guard was down.

Progress ended up arriving hours later. He'd had to cancel more than a few meetings. But all of it was worth it when Murdock slipped off his glasses - fingers flexing and tired as he looked over at him. Waiting until the others nodded, murmuring their assent in hitching whispers before he spoke.

"We'll take the first case on a trial basis, Mr. Wesley. Once we have a ruling on that we will reassess and contact you in regards to our company taking on the rest. Is that fair?"

He simply smiled - the expression fractionally closer to meeting his eyes this time around.

Some people might call that progress.

But he wasn't one of them.


End file.
